


Mauvais café et de bons amis (or, Bad coffee and good friends)

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Series: Les Mis snippetfic [10]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caffeine deprivation, Canon Era, Floof, Gen, M/M, UST by the bucket, snippetfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:54:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8044885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: On the subject of the other plot being played out, Combeferre wasn't positive Courfeyrac's gambit would yield the intended consequence.





	Mauvais café et de bons amis (or, Bad coffee and good friends)

Courfeyrac could've lit a whole coastline, helped ships steer safely to shore -- this was his personality during the gloomiest of times, and this evening that threatened rain qualified, but the glow coming off him at present was bright enough Combeferre almost felt compelled to shield his eyes. 

Instead, Combeferre squinted. "What are you so happy about?" 

He then grimaced, having taken a sip of coffee to discover something had once again gone awry in the brewing process. A spot on his tongue went numb while he tried to swallow the gritty substance that reminded him of nothing more than a piece of badly charred bread crust soaked in too-hot bath water.

Courfeyrac was immune to Combeferre's inadequately caffeinated agonies, and his luminosity increased, as though an unseen stage hand had lit the candle sconces at his feet and lowered a flaming candelabrum above his head. "Coming here I passed the most handsome man I have ever seen in this fair town. And as you know I have seen myself in a mirror more than once."

Surreptitiously Combeferre saw Marius glance up from his corner of the room. Every emotion Marius had ever felt always seemed to show on his face like a bolded newspaper headline, the current byline of which announced terror and dismay.

"Do tell," Combeferre tried to say. His tongue was now full of prickles, but the unpleasant burnt flavor remained.

"Thin, but muscular, I'd wager -- those broad shoulders! -- attired in finest, bold fashion and perfectly groomed hair so lush I nearly crashed into a lamppost for want of wishing to ask him what pomatum he prefers," Courfeyrac said, unwinding what seemed to be fifteen feet of wooly scarf. He defeated the accessory and took his seat in triumph.

Combeferre blew on his coffee and tried to think why the description of the handsome man seemed familiar. On the other side of the table he could see Feuilly finish a scribbled note to Bossuet with the parting phrase, 'Let me know if Grantaire wants help with the goat,' which sounded promising.

If Combeferre was not mistaken, Feuilly was blushing. It struck Combeferre as being very curious, that Feuilly should be blushing while blotting ink on an innocuous correspondence. He took another sip of terrible coffee to disguise his intrigue and regretted it immediately.

Feuilly whistled, sharp, and as if from a cupboard behind the bar a gamin snapped into existence, snatched the folded letter and a coin from Feuilly's hand, and ran down the stairs, slamming the door behind him with such force the entire floor shook.

"You left out tall," Feuilly told Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac gasped, "Yes! You know of whom I speak, you've seen him." 

He looked at least as thrilled as if handed a pear carved into the sagging shape of Louis Philippe's visage; Grantaire, when not hatching surreal barnyard plots, had lately been teaching himself to whittle.

Across the room, Marius looked like someone had just told him he'd have to drown a sack of kittens.

Courfeyrac elbowed Combeferre. "You've seen him too," he said. He mouthed something, pointedly not in the direction of Marius.

"Oh," Combeferre said, lowering his voice. Ah. "Bahorel?" He thought a moment. "Bahorel's tall?"

"Not any taller than you are, but yes," Feuilly said. He cleared his throat and looked away. 

Goddammit, Combeferre realized, I owe Joly five sous.

On the subject of the other plot being played out, Combeferre wasn't positive Courfeyrac's gambit would yield the intended consequence. Marius was often pensive, interesting, and capable of overcoming mildness in the service of a sincere, if occasionally wrongheaded, conviction. Marius had also proven himself capable of the most awkward reactions to cheerful seduction Combeferre had ever witnessed. And this was in a world where Enjolras existed.

Courfeyrac was greeting a couple of students who were sharing a plate of pungent Roquefort and stale baguette at the bar. Marius watched for a second and quickly returned his attention to the pamphlet in front of him, which Combeferre knew to be one restating various and sundry Buonarroti commentaries. He had found it unenlightening, though he agreed with a decent portion of the text. 

Marius's sudden devotion to studying it with grave intensity seemed to have little, Combeferre surmised, to do with any honest opinion regarding Babeuf, propaganda, or covert conspiracies. Marius was not seated close enough to a window to plunge out of it as his expression suggested he wished he could manage.

Matelote brought Feuilly a bowl of suspicious soup, the merest wisp of steam curling off its murky curdled surface. When Combeferre raised his cup at her, she slammed the bowl down -- Feuilly flinched and scooted his chair to the other side of the table -- and stomped a foot. 

"Monsieur Combeferre," she said. "We have scrubbed the urn several times as you insisted. There is nothing else to be done for it."

"You should not continue to use that ancient spirit lamp--"

"If you say one word about 'drip pots' or 'glass balloons' or, god help me, 'vacuums' I should be forced to have Madame escort you from the premises." 

Feuilly, gazing upon the ceiling, pulled his soup across the table with a single fingertip. Matelote's beady Viking eyes flashed. Combeferre sighed and conceded defeat. He nodded at her.

"A glass of wine, please," he said, trying to sound...not meek.

"And one for me," Courfeyrac said, having finished his hellos to prop a hip against the tabletop. "Never too early for a good burgundy."

"It is in this establishment," Feuilly muttered. Matelote harrumphed at him before stalking off toward the kitchen, which was in no way where the wine was kept.

Courfeyrac, staring at nothing in particular, arms crossed, a portrait of serenity, still had about him the almost insufferable radiance of a man relishing his own charm.

"How go things," Combeferre began in a low voice, "with Marius returned your quarters?"

"By things, he means, schemes," Feuilly said. He slurped a spoonful of soup and maintained a virtuous air, at least until he had to swallow the soup.

Courfeyrac's eyes widened in comparable innocence. "Very well. The timeline is intact." His tone was exactly the one Enjolras used to talk about munitions stockpiles. He winked and Feuilly rolled his eyes.

Matelote arrived to slap two mugs of wine on the table. 

After she left, a breeze in her wake, Combeferre stood, picked up both mugs, and pushed them into Courfeyrac's hands. "Stop torturing him," Combeferre admonished under his breath. He gave Courfeyrac his Most Severe look, and Courfeyrac had the skill to resist laughing when Combeferre's eyebrow got away from him.

"Hasn't Marius met Bahorel?" Feuilly whispered as they watched Courfeyrac sidle up to Marius's table.

"Of course," Combeferre said. "I'm not sure I would have described him the way Courfeyrac did." 

Feuilly made a small noise that either did or didn't convey agreement; his curious flush had renewed itself. Combeferre wondered when Bahorel-times-Feuilly had started to exist, and then wanted to kick himself for having fallen prey to Joly's wanton mindset. It was none of his business. 

Well. A good scientific approach was always strengthened by a certain amount of inquisitiveness, perhaps even imaginative insight. Combeferre still wasn't going to ask.

Marius raised his head at Courfeyrac's approach. His countenance was one of the more forlorn yet hilarious things Combeferre had seen in the recent past. Feuilly rubbed his nose and clearly struggled to suppress an equal amount of pitying laughter. 

They were spared additional efforts by Enjolras arriving with his normal determined-to-slay-enemies demeanor alongside Joly, who looked a bit peaked. Maybe, Combeferre considered, he could settle part of the bet by buying Joly something to eat. Something other than the dreadful soup of the day.

Bahorel himself ambled in, appearing hale, hearty, and possessed of a truly fine head of hair. With some amazement Combeferre watched his expression change from boisterous to timid to brash again as soon as he located Feuilly in the room and then recovered from locating Feuilly in the room. 'Tentative' was not an attribute Combeferre would've ever applied to Bahorel, but there had been for a moment undeniable proof of it. 

Combeferre launched himself away from the table under the guise of seeing to Joly's meal.

"Ham cassoulet?" The wan smile Joly first presented had turned more genuine. "But I insist on paying."

"No, no," Combeferre said, taking his elbow and maneuvering them both to the table by the stove that provided the best vantage for the two interludes he was certain were about to unfold, unless Enjolras interrupted-- Ah, no, he had corned the students at the bar, Combeferre was relieved to see. "It's my pleasure."

"Are you well?" Joly put his bag and cane on the wall hooks hung beneath an unfortunate painting of faded cherubs and took a seat beside Combeferre. 

Combeferre pondered the inquiry. The coffee had been a nightmare. The wine, fleeting. He'd not for a heartbeat read the dispatches from an former classmate, studying overseas, that he'd brought with him -- had not even bothered to remove them from the table where Feuilly was telling a story to Bahorel, his hand gestures emphatic and Bahorel rapt -- nor could he work up the energy to care. It was, after all, unlikely a mummy would be wandering his way from the east coast of the United States back to Egypt anytime soon.

Courfeyrac, seated in the corner, had captured Marius's attention fully as well. Whatever Marius was saying couldn't be heard, but when Courfeyrac touched his arm in response Marius nodded with enthusiasm. 

"I've had an enjoyable evening of leisure," Combeferre said, and hoped it did not sound sarcastic.

Prouvaire arrived, damply. He joined Combeferre and Joly and even brought with him three glasses of cognac.

"It is the most beautiful night," Prouvaire said. In addition to rain-spattered waistcoat and hair, there was a dreaminess around his eyes, a smudge of yellow pollen on the side of his left wrist and a streak of ink on his right. Combeferre guessed he'd spent the day reading, writing poetry, meandering gardens, or some combination of the three. 

His hands looked cold. Combeferre wondered what it would be like to warm them between his own. 

A gamin, different from Feuilly's earlier messenger, called for Joly from the doorway. 

"Here, here," Joly said, flustered.

Combeferre handed the child, a ridiculously small boy, a coin. A note was delivered and the child skidded away down the stairs.

"Have you been summoned?" Prouvaire asked. He gave Combeferre a shy smile of thanks as Combeferre draped his dry coat around his shoulders. Combeferre smiled back and returned to his seat, feeling his cheeks go hot for all that he was suddenly wearing fewer articles of clothing.

Joly read the note twice and laughed for a full ten seconds before answering. He finally spoke. "Bossuet wants to know, 'If you are amongst colleagues or comrades: Is anyone acquainted with any Parisian veterinarians? Asking for a friend.'"

**Author's Note:**

> This little snip began life as a modern au. I converted it into canon era (or, at least, closer to canon era than before) just to see what would happen and had fun doing it. To be honest, though, it never once occurred to me that any version of Grantaire and Bossuet _wouldn't_ somehow be caught up in offscreen goat shenanigans.


End file.
